


Sharing a Pack

by sugar_screw



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Arguing, Cigarettes, Emotional Sex, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Insomnia, M/M, Makeup Sex, Nightmares, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 05:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8389069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugar_screw/pseuds/sugar_screw
Summary: A fight. A fuck. A smoke. A small love story.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while drinking wine and badly craving cigarettes.

It starts with the cigarettes. A flash of flame, plume of smoke. Fitting for them, really.

Harry isn’t quite a model student upon returning to Hogwarts after the war. He stays up all night and sleeps late, missing most of his classes. Hermione frowns in concern but her suggestions that he visit Madame Pomfrey are futile and she knows it. Night is the calmest time; everyone is asleep and there’s no one to look at him. He leaves the castle every night to wander aimlessly through the grounds and down through the quiet village. No one ever stops him.

Most nights he sits by the still, black lake. Watches the white moon’s reflection ripple as the giant squid’s tentacles break the surface of the water. Sucks cigarettes down to the filter until the skyline gets light. He’s always sure to slip back into the castle up to his dorm well before anyone wakes for breakfast. It’s a slow and intentional isolation and he knows he’s on the verge of self-destruction.

It’s a chilly, damp fall night when he gets tugged back from that edge. He sits on the shore of the lake with his knees drawn up to his chest, smoke curling from the fag in his hand.

“Can I bum one?”

Startled, he turns his head to see the tall figure of Draco Malfoy moving towards him. It’d been so long since he really spoke to anyone, even Hermione, that at first he just stares. Malfoy sits on the ground, not right next to Harry but a few feet away. He smirks a little, one eyebrow quirking up. Harry shakes himself and clears his throat.

“Er, yeah. Sure.” He scrambles for his cigarette pack and holds it out to Malfoy. His pale hands seem to glow in the moonlight as he takes one between his long fingers. He brings it to his lips and leans towards Harry, bracing himself on one hand. Harry swallows hard before picking up his lighter. He cups his hand around the flame, his fingertips close enough to graze Malfoy’s cheek. He watches Malfoy’s face; eyes closed, a slight crease in his brow, fringe falling over his forehead. After several seconds that feel like minutes or perhaps hours, the cigarette is lit and Malfoy pulls away.

“Thanks.” He says exhaling a white cloud into the night air over the lake.

They don’t talk that night really, just sit quietly side by side. But things move quite rapidly from that point. Hermione writes Ron to tell him that, to her alarm, Harry is spending his nights smoking pack after pack with Draco Malfoy. It’s a very trendy topic for the duration of their final year at Hogwarts, with good old Rita dusting off her quill and sending out her camera goons to snap compromising shots of them.

Despite numerous articles being published in the _Prophet_ and endless whispers in the corridor, they don’t seem to even notice. They’re so deeply focused on one another it builds an impenetrable wall around them that neither could construct alone. Ron’s letters lay unopened, Lucius’s Howlers burst and curl into ash with no one to hear them.

Just before graduation the _Prophet_ publishes a titillating image of them on shore of the lake, shot from some distance away. Despite that, it's clear that Draco’s hand is on Harry’s face. Harry places his hand over Draco’s and moves his head to press his mouth against Draco’s palm. The entire school explodes into chatter as they watch Harry’s mouth move to Draco’s wrist, then forearm, over the Dark Mark, towards the crook of his elbow (not that either are in the Great Hall to hear this when it happens; they’re asleep in Harry’s quiet, dark room). The photo stops and reloops just before the moment that Harry had yanked Draco against his chest. Harry clips the photo and presses it between the pages of his copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages._

They graduate side by side and things start to settle down by the time they move into Grimmauld Place. There’s only so much juicy gossip to be wrung out of two boys fixing up an old house. People move on, Ron and Hermione come over for dinner every Thursday, they buy many succulents, and bicker over stupid things. It’s all quite dull which is really rather exciting for Harry.

It’s a bitterly cold evening, not dissimilar to the first night Draco joined Harry on that lake shore over a year prior, when they have their first real fight.

“I got an interesting letter today.”

“Yeah?” Draco asks from his place at the sink; his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows as he dips his hands in the warm soapy water.

“Yeah,” Harry hesitates for a moment, fiddling with a lighter on the table in front of him. “From the Ministry.”

Draco continues washing the dishes from that evening's dinner, waiting.

“They offered me a junior Auror position. Again.”

Harry sees Draco still, a sudden rigidness in his shoulders. He pulls his hands from the dingy dishwater, grabbing a tea towel and turning to face Harry. He dries his hands with unnecessary force as he gazes hard at Harry.

“Oh?”

Draco sounds calm despite every tense line of his body conveying otherwise.

“Yeah. The same offer they gave me right after the war.”

Draco scowls and snatches the pack of cigarettes off the table. Harry watches him light one, his agitation making Harry’s guts quiver with anxiety.

“What rubbish.” Draco says finally, a veil of smoke obscuring his face for a moment.

Harry clenches his teeth, suddenly defensive.

“Why’s that?”

The smoke is clearing and Harry sees Draco's pale eyes widen.

“Come off it,” Draco says, beginning to pace, just a short length back and forth in front of the sink. Draco has so many tics and nervous habits and most Harry doesn’t mind or even notice. But the pacing always sets his teeth on edge.

“You think I can't do it?” Harry doesn't intend for it to sound so accusatory but there it is.

Draco wheels on the spot and takes a short, harsh pull on the fag, glaring.

“You want to? Since when?” He demands.

“I didn't say that.” Harry gets to his feet in a rush, unsure if he wants to move closer to Draco or get away from him as fast as possible. But he just stands still, watching Draco smoke and glower.

“Fuck’s sake, Harry. You wake up screaming every night. You want to do fieldwork? Are you fucking mental?”

It’s wounding even though Harry knows Draco can’t possibly intend it that way. But for just a moment all he can hear is Draco in their early years at Hogwarts, implying at every turn that he’s weak. Harry closes his eyes for a moment, nails digging into his palm.

“You’ll fucking destroy yourself.” Draco’s voice is getting louder and Harry knows, he _knows_ that this happens when Draco is feeling emotional, that it’s the only way he can stop himself crying but all it sounds like is Draco shouting him down.

“Fuck you!” Harry yells finally, eyes flying open. “If I want to join the Auror program I will! It’s my bloody choice! What is your problem anyway?”

Draco drags one hand back through his hair, face pink. He smashes the cigarette into the ashtray on the table, snuffing it out.

“They don’t care about you, Harry! They want you as a poster boy, they’ve never had your best interest at heart!”

Harry sneers even though he knows it’s fucking true.

“What, like _you_ do.” He regrets it the second it leaves his mouth and even more when Draco flinches. As if Harry has physically hit him.

It’s quiet for a moment. Smoke curls toward the ceiling, shimmering against the warm, glowing candelabra hanging there.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco asks quietly. He’s receded back into the shadows of the kitchen; Harry can’t make out his face.

“I...nothing,”

“No.” Draco says with more force. “What _the fuck_ do you mean, Harry.”

He moves forward and Harry sees the crease in his brow that usually indicates he’s quite near tears. Harry hates himself.

“You think I live here for...what? For fun? Because fixing up decrepit houses is a hobby of mine? That you're just _that good_ a fuck? You think I stay here and fucking live with you and yet I don’t care about you?”

“No, I don’t, of course I don’t!” Harry collapses back into the chair, head in his hands. “But Jesus, Draco, I mention this and you immediately jump down my throat. You didn’t give me a second to talk or even think about it!”

Quiet again. Harry wipes his face, unsure of when tears slid down over his cheeks. He reaches for the pack of cigarettes but only fidgets with it without removing one. He looks up as Draco sits across from him and though his face is still rigid his eyes are gentler.

“I’m...I’m sorry. It scares me, I guess.”

Harry softens and wants badly to touch him. His hand inches towards Draco cautiously.

“You don’t have to be scared. I...I don’t know what I want to do about this offer, okay? But I want to talk to you about it. Like, really talk. Not tonight ‘cause I think we’re both just too tense. But soon. Okay? Is that okay?”

Draco nods but he still looks too upset. Harry touches his wrist and Draco grips his hand tightly for a long moment before standing and returning to the sink. Harry finally brings a cigarette to his lips and smokes it while Draco finishes the dishes; he watches rain splatter the window just beyond Draco’s shoulder. After he’s put the last bowl away Harry stands and they leave the kitchen together. Harry is still anxious about the silence between them but the brush of Draco’s knuckles against the back of his hand is warm as they ascend the stairs towards their room.

Harry gets undressed quickly and sits on the bed, watching Draco carefully. Draco is always so measured in his bedtime routine, it’s like a ritual. Harry watches him move from closet, to bathroom, and back again to the closet to select his night clothes. Harry bites his lip, fingering a loose thread in the duvet.

“Are you still angry?”

“No.” Draco says quietly, pulling a long, soft shirt—one of Harry’s—over his head. He turns towards the bed and though his features are soft there’s a sharp anxiety around his eyes. “I wasn’t actually angry, really. I just…”

Harry gestures for Draco to join him on the bed. Draco sits and looks down, brow furrowed as though he can’t find the right words. Finally he looks up at Harry, at a loss.

“I’m bad at...having feelings. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Come here.”

Feelings are impossible but this is easy. Ever since that first nicotine-sharp, bruising kiss on the edge of the lake, they knew this was easy. Once their lips meet, well, who cares about all that other stuff. _We’ll get to it, we’ll get to it._ When the heat builds between them, inside their mouths and bodies it’s more intoxicating than the most potent drink; Harry can forget anything when Draco is beneath him.

There is nothing else like the delicate stretch of Draco’s pale throat as his head digs back into the pillow or the moment his nails prick Harry’s back when he pushes into him. Harry’s hard-angled, difficult lover, sharp in every way, so often tense and tight like a coiled spring, yields to him; body supple and open. He drags his long, strong fingers along Harry’s broad back and their bodies move together. Draco is flexible to an alarming degree, pulls his legs up around Harry in ways that shouldn’t make sense, and digs his heels into Harry’s lower back. _Harder,_ they demand.

If it’s fast or rough or even if it hurts, Draco is never loud. Something that took Harry time to understand. Now he’s fine-tuned to the rapidity of Draco’s breathing against his ear, the small hitches in his throat as he rocks closer to the edge. Typically his only words are quick, harshly whispered, monosyllabic.

_Yes. Fuck. More. Please._

When Harry realizes through a haze of pleasure that Draco is chanting his name over and over, it’s different, certainly but not necessarily alarming. It’s that he sounds so pained that scares Harry. He shakes his head and looks clearly into Draco’s face, hips slowing. His eyes are closed, brow deeply creased and he’s holding so tight to Harry all the fine bones of his neck and collar stand out.

“Am I hurting you?” It wouldn’t be the first time.

“No.” Draco gasps and presses his mouth against Harry’s ear; his arms and legs tighten around Harry, pulling him closer, deeper. “Don’t stop.”

Still, Draco sounds like he’s going to cry. Harry continues to move slow, brushing the hair from Draco’s face. Draco lifts his hips up from the mattress in defiance of the slower pace and Harry gasps as he clenches tight. His vision blurs for just a moment.

“Please!”

Harry’s hips move faster then and his head falls forward, resting on Draco’s collarbone.

“W-what’s wrong?” Harry tries again even as he feels them both moving quickly towards orgasm.

Draco’s breath hitches in a strange way, like a small sob.

“I…” He gasps and Harry moans as his nails tear at his back. “I don’t...I don’t wanna lose you, Harry.”

Harry forces his eyes open. Draco’s are wide open and wet. Those other things, those conversations saved for later have slithered into their bed. Harry blinks away the searing heat behind his eyes and kisses Draco fiercely, teeth digging into his soft bottom lip. He hopes there’s a mark there tomorrow.

“You won’t.” He says firmly against Draco’s open mouth. It’s almost over, they’re almost there.

"Harry, I,” Draco is gasping hard now, pleasure and emotion overwhelming him. “I…”

“Y-yes?”

Draco’s fingers tangle into Harry’s hair and they lock eyes.

“I love you.”

Harry’s eyes widen in surprise. Draco looks terrified, face flushed and wet and he closes his eyes and pulls Harry tight against him as his body stiffens. Harry feels Draco’s cock jerk between them, spilling sticky white ropes against his pale stomach. Harry can’t blink away any more tears and they fall onto Draco’s lips.

“I love you too, Draco.” Harry says and it’s like dragging some painful, scared thing out of himself. Draco moans loudly then, in a way Harry has never heard as the last of his orgasm passes through him. Harry can’t imagine ever hearing anything as beautiful ever again and he bites down on Draco’s shoulder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Draco says softly as Harry comes, hard, pulsing deep inside him. Full of heat and cum, Draco lets his legs fall from around Harry’s waist, spent in every way. Harry buries his face in the curve of Draco’s neck, falling lax against his body.

Sex and orgasms are very good but Harry often thinks this is his favorite part. Skin slick and hot but slowly cooling, muscles loosening, softening. Breathing deeply, together. Two rapid heartbeats pounding side by side, slowing, _slowing._ Draco trails his fingertips gingerly up and down Harry’s back, making him shiver. It’s not quite sleep but it’s also different from any other time they’re awake. A liquid, shimmering state where they are very alive and deeply, _tightly_ entwined.

Finally, Draco shifts beneath him and Harry rolls to his back, raking his hair back from his face. He sits up, one hand fumbling over the side table. He finds a crumpled pack of cigarettes and removes two. Draco moves sluggishly, pulling the blankets up over his chest before taking the proffered cigarette. They sit against the headboard, bare arms pressed together as a cloud of smoke billows towards the ceiling above them. Draco looks at Harry, his hand hovering just in front of his mouth, again obscuring his eyes with a ghostly wall of smoke.

“Harry, if...if you want to join—”

“Tomorrow.” Harry says gently, snaking his arm around Draco’s shoulder. _Tomorrow_. _There’ll be time tomorrow._ Draco nods and lays his head against Harry’s shoulder.

The rain has built to a storm, pounding against the old thick glass of Grimmauld Place’s windows. They finish their cigarettes and Harry turns off the light. He knows that in just a few hours he’ll probably be ripped from sleep by some persistent horrific memory that refuses to leave him but rather sits and rots in his brain to haunt him in his sleep. But when he does, Draco will be there. That he knows for sure.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
